Duet
by DemonClowSorceress
Summary: After a typical day of solving crimes, a talent of Molly's is discovered. Sherlock, wishing to show her how much she means to him as a friend, takes this knowledge and tries to show her in the best way he knows how. Sherlolly friendship.


**Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock._**

 **Duet**

 **By: DemonClowSorceress**

* * *

"Um, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he picked the front door lock. "Not now, Molly."

She quickly checked down both sides of the hallway to make sure nobody saw them breaking into the crime scene. "Just tell me why I'm here again?"

"John and Mary are spending the holiday with his sister, and I need an assistant for this case. It's an eight-point-five."

"Surely you could've asked someone else."

"There is no one else. Besides, it's not as if you had any pressing social engagements on your day off. You haven't had the time to schedule any."

Molly scowled at the back of his curly head. "For your information, Sherlock Holmes, I have a date tonight at seven. And like I said earlier, I want to be back at my flat by five so I can get ready, whether the case is solved or not."

After the events of the infamous Fall, Molly Hooper had learned quite a few things about Sherlock Holmes. He'd had to hide out in her flat for quite a few weeks following his very public "suicide" to heal up and plan the next stage of his mission, so Molly had constant exposure to the world's only consulting detective and his rather eccentric habits. It helped dull the mystique of his deductive power to learn that he lounged about in a ratty dressing gown, loved trash TV, and had a habit of conversing endlessly with whatever random object he could find lying about.

"Ah, another insipid prat's attempts into your good graces. Really Molly, must you waste two hours on dressing to impress another probable psychopath?"

She rolled her eyes. Constant exposure to the many insults he tended to throw out as observations had given her a toughened hide. She had also gained the power to stand up to him. She wasn't as proficient as, say, John Watson, but she was now able to stand her own ground and not get swept away by those mesmerizing eyes and mysterious cheekbones and the empty compliments he used to drop to manipulate her into doing what he wanted. "Once again, why am I here?"

Sherlock made a victorious little noise in the back of his throat and straightened up. "Follow me, and do keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary."

Rolling her eyes again, Molly followed the consulting detective inside the small house. It was modestly decorated, speaking to a bachelor accustomed to bringing women and mixed company over on many occasions. There were no funky smells, no piles of laundry or unwashed dishes, no dirty magazines, and no questionable items in prominent view. Molly noticed a few pictures of family and old pets adorning the shelves, but personal items were few and far between otherwise.

Sherlock's gaze barely lasted ten seconds before he headed for the victim's bedroom. Molly kept in step behind him, intrigued despite herself. She loved watching Sherlock as he deduced his surroundings; he always saw so much more than ordinary people could ever hope to see, and once he decided to reveal his findings, it opened her eyes to the connections as well.

If only he could see _her_ with just as much clarity.

 _Oh well._ He said there was nobody else who could be his assistant. She'd take what she could get.

* * *

Having Molly as his assistant was almost the same as having John by his side, but with a mute button. Sherlock enjoyed hearing John's oft-unintentional remarks of "Amazing" and "Fantastic" when he deduced, but sometimes it derailed his train of thought. Molly was silent as a shadow, respecting his need for uninterrupted thought and space, but she'd watch him with large brown eyes brimming with sentimentality.

It used to annoy him, seeing those emotions. Now...he wasn't sure what he thought about it.

He heard her soft footfalls behind him as he made his way into the victim's bedroom. Like the rest of the house, it held very few personal items beyond picture frames and a few masculine knickknacks. Clearly the victim spend very little time in the room aside from the necessary time it took to sleep and dress himself.

Then his eyes alighted on the music stand set up in the light of the window. A small, familiar case lay on the floor beside the stand. Sherlock knelt down and popped open the clasps to lift the lid and let sunlight hit the dark, finished wood of the instrument.

The violin was no cheap instrument. Sherlock recognized the workmanship of an Amati violin, beautifully preserved and well-cared for. On the music stand were several pages of music, all handwritten in black ink. The victim was clearly a skilled and dedicated violinist, which Sherlock had already deduced from the calluses on his fingertips, but seeing the violin itself told him something as well. The victim was passionate about his playing.

"Wow," Molly said in an impressed tone, already scanning the sheet music. "He wrote his own music, and if he could play this, he was very talented. Maybe as good as you, Sherlock." One finger traveled across the notes as her other hand absently moved as if practicing the fingering.

Sherlock's eyebrow rose in a rare moment of genuine surprise. She had no calluses on her fingertips and there had never been any indication that she was musically inclined. "You play?"

"Used to."

"Were you any good?"

"Good enough to make the first cello for orchestra." Realizing she was bragging, Molly flashed him a self-depreciating smile and added, "But it's been ages. I'm probably rubbish now."

Sherlock found himself doubting her words. Molly's muscle memory was similar to the way he retained information - unless she made a conscious effort to unlearn it, the skill was never completely lost. He could not recall seeing an instrument case at her flat, but set a mental reminder to take a closer look.

He must have been silent for too long. Molly's cheeks grew twin points of red that seeped across her pale skin as her eyes flitted away from his deducing gaze. "D-Did you learn anything?"

"Plenty." He'd solved the case almost five minutes ago, but he wasn't about to tell Molly that.

"S-S-So we're going? I s-still have to get ready..."

 _Of course. Her date._ Another asinine attempt for Molly to find a sentimental connection with someone of inferior intellect. Again, Sherlock held his tongue. Something in his mind that sounded suspiciously like John told him saying that aloud would have been "not good" in the least.

So he only said, "Of course. We can leave now. Traffic willing, you should be home in time to freshen up."

The smile she gave him was bright with gratitude. Sherlock filed this sight, as well as her earlier display of blushing cheeks and shy avoidance, away in a room of his Mind Palace he hadn't realized he'd devoted to Molly Hooper. He didn't know why he did it, but ever since the Fall, he'd found himself unwilling to delete anything he learned about Molly. A side effect from his isolation during the Fall, he rationalized, with her as his only contact to home.

He refused to call it sentiment.

Once the case was solved, Molly was safely escorted home, and he was back in Baker Street, Sherlock let his mind wander. Let himself think about Molly and the newest tidbit of information he had just gleaned from the case. Let himself mull over how she always seemed ready to assist him, despite having her own life. Puzzling over how he could ever begin to repay her for everything she had ever done for him.

Then, quite suddenly, the most perfect idea occurred to him. Grabbing a pen and a few sheets of paper, Sherlock began to compose.

* * *

Many weeks after the case's conclusion, Molly was just leaving Bart's after a double shift when she received a text from Sherlock.

 _Molly - Come to Baker Street if convenient. If inconvenient, please reconsider. SH_

She sighed and shook her head. She considered ignoring the text - a hot bath and a glass of red wine was calling her name from her flat - but when she re-read the text, she noticed the second part. Sherlock Holmes never used please, not even when he texted John. Curiosity made her give the cabbie the address to Baker Street instead of her address.

Mrs. Hudson was out when she arrived, but there was a note on the front door inviting her to enter. She walked up to 221B and poked her head inside the ajar door. "Sherlock?" He was standing by the window with his back to her, wearing black slacks and that sinfully sexy purple shirt of his with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His violin was in one hand, his bow in the other. The canting of his head indicated that he heard her.

Still cautious as to his motives, Molly entered 221B and hovered by the door. "I-I'm sorry, did I interrupt you?" She knew how he despised being disturbed while composing.

"No. Come in, Molly." He didn't turn to face her. "Won't you sit down? I believe there is still some tea left over from when Mrs. Hudson made a fresh pot."

She frowned, bemused. "Thank you?"

Sherlock put down his violin and moved towards the tea tray. Molly watched, dumbstruck, as he poured out two cups of tea and flavored one the exact way she liked her tea. She didn't even bother wondering how he knew, just accepted the offered cup and moved to sit in John's chair.

"How was your date?"

"My...date?"

"The gentleman you met after our last case."

"It was...fine."

"Oh?" Sherlock sipped from his own cup. "So, no second date?"

"No."

He gave a sigh that, were it anyone else, could have been considered casual. "What a pity."

This was easily the most polite small talk she had ever heard the consulting detective utter of his own accord. Molly was certain at any moment someone would pop out and yell "Gotcha!" But since she was very tired, she sipped her perfectly flavored tea and chose her next words very carefully.

"Stop blowing smoke up my skirt."

He blinked. "I beg your pardon."

"You don't give a tinker's damn about my love life. In fact, I distinctly recall your warning me off pursuing any and all attempts at maintaining a relationship." She took another fortifying sip. "So I will ask you again. Why am I here, Sherlock?"

Now he faced her. Incredible blue-green eyes met hers with a strange intensity that made her knees go weak. "I - have something to ask of you," he said in a hesitant, almost awkward tone.

"What is it? What do you need?" It escaped neither of their notices that she used the precise wording of that night in the morgue when Sherlock Holmes had last asked her something so seriously. The tone of her voice, one of increased concern and a growing fear that his life was in danger once more, was just as familiar.

Sherlock flapped his hand dismissively. "It is not a pressing issue, not in that sense. I merely wished to ask you something."

"And that is?" When his gaze drifted towards the sofa, Molly looked over as well. Lying on the cushions was a large black case in a shape she could identify anywhere. "Why is there a cello on your sofa?"

"A cellist from the London Philharmonic owed me a favor. Her boyfriend took cyanide and tried to frame her for his murder. I proved his death was premeditated suicide." He gestured to the case. "I called her last week and asked if she would be willing to lend me one of her cellos for a time, for a friend."

Molly's jaw dropped. "Why?" she whispered, unable to voice her questions. _Why did you do that? Why am I here? What are you trying to tell me?_

Sherlock's head tilted imperceptibly. If it was anyone else, the gesture would have been written off as a tic. "Because I have made you suffer my selfishness for so long, and I know that is not how one treats an equal. Or a friend." He gestured again towards the cello. "I wish to make some small amends."

For the first time Molly realized that there were sheets of paper resting on the sofa beside the cello. She rose from her chair, picked the pages up and gave them a quick once-over. "It's sheet music."

"Yes."

"For a cello."

"Yes."

"I don't recognize the piece. Did you compose this?"

"Yes."

She looked back to Sherlock, nerves beginning to create butterflies. Sherlock's compositions were beautiful works of art, and she didn't want to muck it up with her subpar playing skills. "You want me to play for you?"

"No, _with_ me," he corrected. His words stumbled out of his mouth as a pale tinge of red colored his cheeks. "Play with me. Together. A duet. I wrote the violin part here." The flush on his cheeks crept down his jawline and his throat. "If you have no other pressing engagements, that it."

This almost adolescently stammered request, in true awkward Sherlockian form, was tantamount to a formal handwritten invitation. She would have been a fool to reject it, and though Molly was many things, she was not a fool.

She opened the case and extracted the heavy instrument with tender care. Sherlock cleared his clutter off the coffee table so that he could lay her music out. Sitting on the couch, Molly assumed her stance and expertly tuned the cello as her fingers began to recall their former talent. "I haven't played in several years," she warned him. "I may be a little rusty."

"Nonsense." Sherlock likewise picked up his violin and checked its tone. "I believe in your muscle memory and your excellent recall."

For several seconds, the only sounds were the melodic thrum of tuning strings. Once she was satisfied with her cello, Molly looked up with an excited grin. "Shall we begin, Sherlock Holmes?"

"It would be my privilege, Molly Hooper," Sherlock replied with his own smile.

That night, Mrs. Hudson kept awake by the beautiful sounds of a violin and cello duet coming from 221B. She sat up in her kitchen and listened long into the wee hours, smiling. _They make such an excellent pair, they do._

* * *

 ***leaves fic out and backs away slowly* It's a little rough, but...it's cute, right? Hope you enjoy it!**

 **Review please!**


End file.
